


A Bit of Comfort

by Venivincere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2858600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/pseuds/Venivincere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry can't seem to get Snape out of his head. Or is it Voldemort?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_con_cept (abstractconcept)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/gifts).



> Written for Merry Smutmas 2007. The_Con_Cept, I adore your fic, so looking at your Smutmas request and at the fics you like, I found it a daunting task to write something you'd be proud to have as a gift. I hope you enjoy my humble offering. Merry Smutmas! Many thanks to my beta, Themostepotente. You are always a help, my dear. Also, my thanks and best wishes go to Gina (GMTH) for her wonderful innovative work with Merry_Smutmas these last five years. I'm sorry to see it go, but fandom has forever gained some amazing fic from this fest.
> 
> Resposted on January 5, 2008 to Skyehawke here: http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=16751

He doesn't always know when the next episode will hit, and, strangely,he's beginning not to mind them so much. At first, of course, he was terrified. But the prospect of Snape inhabiting his personal space has become a bit of a comfort, and he's really needing a bit of comfort these days. He wonders why he has them, these spells, these episodes. Perhaps someone is slipping him potions, perhaps someone is cursing him, perhaps it's Voldemort… perhaps he's cracking under the strain and his mind is coming unglued. There's only a little pain in his scar, so the last seems the likeliest excuse.  
  
He could be anywhere when it hits him and without his knowledge, without his permission, he slips into daydream and the scenario plays out again: the closeness -- too close -- the touching, the kissing, the disrobing, the caressing… the thrusting, the sweating, then dizzy, effervescent orgasm -- coming, coming... coming to and realizing he's still in the Great Hall eating lunch, he's still in Transfiguration with a mangled mouse in front of him, he's mounted on his broom at Quidditch practice, last one on the ground with his teammates circling above him.  
  
Today, he's still in Potions, and  _Merlin_  isn't  _that_ strange to come to with his cock throbbing in his sticky pants and the sense memory of Snape's body collapsed on his own, only to find Snape looming over the front of his desk saying Perhaps you'd like to share with the rest of the class, Mr. Potter, why you are once again  _not paying attention_? Detention. This evening. You will work on this potion until you get it right.   
  
He's never before been so spectacularly ashamed, even if no one else can smell the humid, yeasty scent of him.  
  
If he says "I can't go to detention," not to Snape, of course, but to Ron and Hermione, they won't understand. Harry won't explain, he just  _can't_ ,so he bites his tongue and mutters "I forgot my Transfiguration text," runs up to the dorm, shoves his dirtied pants and trousers in the bottom of his trunk, and rejoins his friends before McGonagall can complain he's late.  
  
He could tell Snape.  
  
He could lie and say "I'm sorry, Professor, I'm ill. May I repeat the potion another time?" though he thinks in all reality he might omit the last -- he couldn't care less about lengthening his hair. He could skip and say "It was Voldemort. My scar, Professor -- I couldn't --" and for verisimilitude, he could crawl into bed under the sympathetic gaze of his friends, draw the curtains and silently shake himself to pieces thinking about Snape's smooth palms and rough fingers, Snape's knees, legs and hips scrubbing against his own until they are both awash in sweat and come. He could….  
  
He could tell Snape the truth.  
  
He imagines turning up to detention in the following scenario:  
  
"I'm here for my detention, sir."  
  
"Get busy, Mr. Potter," Snape would say, and hand Harry a parchment. "The instructions."   
  
Harry would set up his ingredients and work on the potion, and maybe Snape would approach him in the middle of it. He would say "This is… adequate. What is your problem in class, Potter? Are your adoring fans that distracting?"   
  
Harry wouldn't rise to that. Instead, he would say "I -- I have -- I'm seeing things, sir. Daydreams. I don't know -- they may be from Voldemort."  
  
Snape would be concerned,of course. He would, wouldn't he? If it were Voldemort? Harry doesn't know but he decides to play it out in his head that way, so maybe Snape would say "Have you told the headmaster, then?" and when Harry shakes his head no, perhaps Snape'll say "Well, spit it out. What are they about?"  
  
Harry would act confused, maybe, and not a little embarrassed. He'd say "Well, sir -- they're about… you. About your role in the war, and mine. Sort of."  
  
And Snape would say, "Go on. Surely there's more to them than that?"  
  
To which Harry would reply "Ye-es. Yes, professor, there is." He would gulp nervously, and look down at his feet. "We're standing around a table, with a map. And you get -- close. Very close, Professor." Harry would bite his lip and risk a glance up at Snape's face. Snape would be staring right back, unsuspecting, unaware of the bomb Harry's about to drop. "And then, sir, you would touch me."  
  
"Touch you, Potter?" Snape would say, and maybe he would frown. Or maybe he would catch on right away; his eyes would narrow and maybe he would say "How  _dare_  you, Potter. How  _dare_ you make such an accusation against me?" Snape would grab Harry by the lapels and attempt to drag him over the top of his cauldron, and instead of abject fear in Harry's eyes and frightened squeaking, Snape would find hot desire and Harry moaning with need.  
  
"You see,Professor?" Harry would say, and Snape, knowing a spade for a spade, would agree but not out loud, and the ensuing moments would find them awkwardly kissing and shuffling around the worktable so they could join together and do it properly.  
  
Or maybe, the scenario would work out this way:  
  
"I'm here for my detention, sir."  
  
"Very well, then. Strip and assume the position."  
  
"Wha -- what, Professor?"  
  
"Strip, Mr. Potter. Divest yourself of your clothing. Become naked, and lean over my desk, cheek to wood. Do you understand?"  
  
"Wait --"  
  
"Six of the best, Mr. Potter. Take them like the man you'll likely never grow old enough to be."  
  
"But…!"  
  
"The only butt I want to know about is your bare one, Mr. Potter," Snape would say, sounding perfectly reasonable and quite ignoring Harry's disbelief.  
  
"I can't believe you!" Harry would say, angrily shrugging his robe to the floor and unbuttoning his school shirt. "I mean, isn't this --"  
  
"No, it isn't. Do hurry, Potter. I have other business to attend to this evening."  
  
"More arses to spank?"  
  
"Tut,tut. You can't imagine impertinence wouldn't be taken out on your anything-but-impert behind, do you?" Snape would say, tilting his head and making a frank appraisal of Harry's nether regions.  
  
"Like what you see, then?" Harry would say, impossibly hard and feeling his lips pout like the women in the magazines Dudley hid between his mattress and springs.  
  
"Like it, Potter? I love it!" Snape would say.  
  
Wait. Snape would  _never_ say something like that, and come to think of it Harry would never knowingly pout, so he revises in his head: his lips would form a thin,hard line and Snape would say "It's nothing to me, Potter. Now, count."  
  
But that's boring; Snape's usually snarkier than that, so maybe Snape would say, in between blows, "Your bottom," smack! "Mr. Potter," smack! "is nothing more or less" smack! "than any other bottom" smack! "to which" smack! "I've had the duty" smack! "to attend." SMACK!  
  
"Sir, that was seven smacks, not six."  
  
"One to grow on, Mr. Potter," Snape would say.  
  
"But,sir," Harry would say, turning around and leaning seductively against the table, his heavy erection straining to reach his chin, "I already have grown."  
  
"So I see, Mr. Potter," Snape would say. "Perhaps I ought to measure just how much." Snape would sit in the visitor chair in front of Harry, lean forward, and pull Harry forward by his cock until he was sitting in Snape's lap, legs wrapping around Snape's waist and the narrow chair back. Snape wouldn't let go.  
  
Something still doesn't ring quite true in this scenario, thinks Harry, but he can't put his finger on it.  
  
Well, since Harry was imagining anyway, what if he hadn't grown? What if he went to detention in his body from third year, just thirteen and still scrawny, but still suffering the intoxicating, damp mortification of his daydreams? How would Snape respond, then?  
  
If Harry says They're from Voldemort, would Snape say "Ridiculous! If you're going to tell tall tales, perhaps you ought to tell them to the Headmaster, Potter," and march him straight up the spiral staircase? Or would Snape take note of the bulge in Harry's school trousers and say "Well, well, Potter. It looks like the Boy Who Lived is becoming the Man Who Lived."  
  
No, perhaps not that.  
  
Perhaps Snape would be inclined to spank him then, too? Maybe like a naughty child, over the knee. "Come here, Mr. Potter," Snape would say. "What kind of childish notions have infiltrated your brain now?"  
  
Harry would slog forward, dragging his feet until he stood to the side of Snape, where a deceptively gentle hand on his back would tip him forward over Snape's lap. Snape would slide a hand under Harry's robes and grab his hip; the other would bunch the robes into the small of Harry's back, then rain down hard and fast on Harry's clothed buttocks.  
  
Harry supposes this would make him scream and cry, and Snape would probably like that very much. Perhaps Harry would feel a swelling under the hip tucked into Snape's groin. Perhaps Snape would feel Harry's answering swelling against his thigh. What if, after the spanking was over and Harry was rubbing his arse trying to put out the flames, Snape pulled Harry back down to sit in his lap and placed his hand over the tent in Harry's robes. Would Harry feel the hard bar under his flank twitch when his own cock twitches under Snape's skillful fingers?  
  
For surely Snape would grip Harry's boy-erection hard through his robes and loose trousers, stroking it, giving it a little twist at the end, just the way Harry likes, and it wouldn't take long, not at all -- just a few pulls and he would be spilling himself, coming in his pants, feeling an answering throb and dampness on his flank --  
  
"Merlin's  _drawers!_ "  
  
Harry comes to with the sound of Transfiguration erupting into laughter, and McGonagall says, "Mr. Potter, is something the matter?"  
  
"N --no, ma'am," he says, though the wet patch is spreading as it soaks through his pants and school trousers. He pulls at the edges of his robes so they don't get sticky, too.  
  
"Well,  _do_  please pay attention and don't interrupt. If it happens again, I shall have to give you detention."  
  
Harry would hate that, mostly because he'd have to explain about his detenion with Snape. Just now, though, he can't think of it because this daydream is nothing like all the others, this one he had some control over, which is entirely new. Harry wonders what that means, that he could voluntarily think of Snape in a sexual manner, that he  _would_ , instead of via the familiar, uncontrollable daydream he's used to.  
  
Harry thinks maybe it's just as well he's got detention with Snape. He really must be going crazy, and something's got to be done about it. For all his experience running headlong into danger, still he feels a thrill of fear at the prospect of asking Snape for help.  
  


 

**:-~-~-~-~-~.-~-.:~-~-:::-~-~:.-~-.~-~-~-~-~-:**

  
  
In the end, he arrives two minutes early and breathless, and Snape already has the potion ingredients laid out for him.  
  
"Hurry, Potter. I've a meeting with the Headmaster in half an hour, and would prefer not to delay it."  
  
So much for telling him anything, thinks Harry, and he would have left it at that if he hadn't sunk headlong into the familiar daydream the moment he puts his hand to the knife.  
  
Snape's there at the table again, leaning close like all the other times. Harry expects the first quiet touch on his shoulder and his eyes fall shut, just like they do every time, but instead of that gentle hand sliding down his arm, the hand begins to shake him, harder and harder, and in the distance he hears "Potter!  _Potter!_  Snap out of it, boy!"  
  
His conscious mind feels as though it's swimming to the surface through molasses. Eventually, he makes it, tries to orient himself, but he falls forward into Snape's chest. Snape yanks the knife from his hand and shoves him off.  
  
"What is  _wrong_  with you, Potter?"  
  
Harry staggers backward and lands on his arse on the flagstones. He's extremely hard and the landing jars him painfully. He curls in on himself and moans.  
  
"Are you ill? Potter, speak!"  
  
"I'm -- I'm okay, Professor," says Harry, clutching his stomach and groaning.  
  
"You are not a vision of health, Potter," Snape sneers. "I ask you again. Are you ill? Or perhaps you have taken something. An illegal potion, perhaps? Something manufactured by those benighted Wesley twins?"  
  
Harry doesn't need to look up to know Snape's frowning. He robes are grasped at the shoulders and he's yanked to his feet, and once again he finds himself pressed into Snape's chest. His erection digs into Snape's thigh. Without much thought, he wraps his arms around Snape's waist and rests his head on Snape's chest. Shaking -- Snape's shaking him again, and growling "What is the meaning of this, Potter?" The hands quit shaking him and move to his waist; they wrap around and lift him enough to walk him over to Snape's guest chair. It's the only one in the room besides Snape's desk chair that has a back. Harry slumps down and wraps his arms around his stomach. His erection tents his trousers and robe.  
  
Snape circles around his desk and sits. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Potter, and you had better make it march."   
  
Snape's got a spot of color high on each cheek. When Harry looks at Snape's eyes, they are narrowed with suspicion and Snape's mouth is pressed into a thin line of distaste.  
  
Harry's stomach quakes, but he pushes forward with the truth as he sees it. "It's Voldemort. He's sending me a vision." Harry tells him everything, then, starting with the closeness, the gentle, caring looks and touches, all the way through the breathtaking sex and coming to at the end of his orgasm with soiled pants, still erect.  
  
Dismay sits unfamiliar on Snape's face when Harry finishes his tale. "It's a test. He's testing me," Harry thinks he hears Snape mutter. Aloud, Snape says, "And you haven't told anyone about them?"  
  
"No, Professor. I -- I can't. I just can't."  
  
Tap, tap, tap; Snape's fingernails hit the desk in a quick tattoo until he swings around, grabs Floo powder from the dish on the shelf behind him and calls the Headmaster.  
  
"I shall be late -- the detention will run longer than I had anticipated."  
  
"Don't keep the poor boy out too late, Severus. He needs his rest, as well."  
  
From where he sits, Harry hears Snape's teeth grit.  
  
"Very well, Headmaster. I shall see you at ten," says Snape, and wheels around to face Harry.  
  
Snape stands by Harry's table. It's got a detailed instruction sheet on it for this afternoon's potion, with pictures at every step. He beckons to Harry, who comes to stand next to him at the table. Snape gestures with one hand for Harry to look down and hastily puts his other hand in his pocket.  
  
Harry feels a moment of confusion -- he doesn't quite remember what he is doing standing in front of the table, but a map is there and he figures he must have slipped into the daydream again when he feels Snape standing close. Too close.  
  
Snape points to the map on the table and says "We'll be needing it soon."  
  
Harry watches Snape roll the parchment up and toss it onto his desk.  
  
"Thank you for bringing it to my attention," says Snape, putting a hand on his shoulder. Then Snape's hand slides down Harry's arm, and it's just as it always is, each time he has the daydream. Harry gives himself up to it as he always does, lets the caress happen and the little tug that comes after, pulling him into Snape's arms. Snape murmurs something quiet and soothing, and his fingers roam over the edge of Harry's collar to rest warm on the back of his neck. He slides them around, turns Harry's face up to his own, stares deeply, deeply into his eyes,and kisses him.  
  
"Your beautiful, green eyes," murmurs Snape, and bends in for another kiss.  
  
Snape usually compliments Harry at this point in his daydream, but he's never said this before.  
  
And now, the slow disrobing, the gentle caresses, and before Harry knows it, he's balanced on the edge of the table, wrapping his legs around a very naked Snape and tilting his head up for another drugging kiss.  
  
Snape places his hand flat on Harry's chest and draws his fingers down, down,wraps them gently around Harry's erection and tugs. Stars -- Harry sees stars and he doesn't know why, but this time around it feels so much more real than all the other times he's slipped into this dream. He doesn't remember his skin shivering so much at Snape's touch. He doesn't remember feeling this cherished, doesn't remember feeling so  _loved_  by this man, though by now he's been taken gently by this man dozens of times in his mind.  
  
When Snape enters Harry, his hands anchored to Harry's hips, Harry cries out "Severus!" without even thinking. His legs lock around Severus' waist and his hips thrust up once, again, again, again.  
  
Snape meets his thrusts and an hour, a minute, a moment later Harry's spurting a warm line up his stomach to his chest and he's calling "Severus, Severus" again without thought.   
  
Snape responds, eyes firmly locked to Harry's, "Lily. Lily.  _Lily!_ "  
  
When Snape pulls himself out of Harry he shuts his eyes tight; there are tears leaking out from under his lashes when he collapses into the nearest chair.  
  
This is new, thinks Harry.  
  
This is excoriating.  
  
And he's still in the daydream. He doesn't know what to do, usually he's come to by now, so he dresses himself as fast as he can and flees to his dorm. Just as his scar begins to bloom with a fierce pain, he crawls straight into bed. It feels like Voldemort's stomping around in his skull, and Harry hopes he finds what he's looking for  _fast_  and gets out so he can get some sleep.  
  
He wakes in the morning sticky, and hopes like hell he never dreams again, either day or night. Snape's not in Potions that day, but he returns the next day, white as a sheet, shaking and full of vitriolic nervous energy. Harry's sure he's just back from having been called, and despite the figurative slap in the face from the Snape in his last daydream, he is relieved to find him in once piece and swooping around the room taking points and sneering.  
  


**:-~-~-~-~-~.-~-.:~-~-:::-~-~:.-~-.~-~-~-~-~-:**

  
  
It's been a month now, and Harry hasn't had any more daydreams. Involuntary ones, anyway. He engages in plenty of the other sort. He longs to lean against a strong, male chest, with arms wrapped around him making him feel safe, feel cherished. The strain is getting to him and he feels like he's cracking under it, like maybe his mind is coming unglued. He could use a bit of comfort these days. But he's no more his mother than he is his father, and if the episode with Snape last month wasn't a ruse to fool Voldemort (and Harry thinks it was; he also thinks that the whole event was real, not a daydream) then it's going to be a bugger of a chore to get the only man he would want to give him comfort to see him for himself.  
  
Harry's never let the impossibility of a chore stop him from getting it done, though, especially when it's as important as this. He lets his mind wander in Potions, imagining all sorts of scenarios for getting Snape into bed. Eventually, he will succeed. Though, he may have to wait until Voldemort is dead. Harry smiles.  
  
"Mr. Potter, perhaps you would like to share what you find so amusing tonight in detention. Eight o'clock sharp. My office," says Snape, an uncharacteristic gleam in his eye.  
  
Well -- maybe he won't have to wait  _quite_  that long.  
  
~fin~ 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] A Bit of Comfort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017819) by [AshiiPods (ashiiblack)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack/pseuds/AshiiPods)




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